


Follow, Please Follow Me Home

by medelrey



Series: Finding Home [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Some Spoilers, but not sansa or jon, the ending is kind of shitty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 09:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7165091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medelrey/pseuds/medelrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s just the girl he remembered, he thinks. But then he realizes he’s wrong - there are only parts of the lovely girl in front of him he remembers. No, Sansa is not who Jon remembers her to be. Not at all, really.</p><p>She is still pure porcelain on the outside, red hair glossy against the stark white of the snow that falls upon the crown of her head. The strands kissed by fire with a glow he’s never seen before; or ever will again on anyone else. She is the image of a true-born Northern lady; now strong where she was once small and meek, still stubborn as a mule but loyal as everyone always says the Starks are. If the North chooses to forget what the Boltons have done, she never will. But Jon knows now she’ll never let anyone forget any of the harm that’s come to their family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow, Please Follow Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> Ok - this is a doozy I did not plan on writing. It contains spoilers up through the current episode of season six. I've lifted some of the dialogue and rearranged some of the things so the timeline would fit the story. One quote is lifted from the show "The White Queen." I also brushed off my BA in History to write the battle scene. 
> 
> This was also inspired by Saosin's 2006 self-titled album, especially the songs "Bury Your Head", "You're Not Alone", "I Never Wanted To", and "Finding Home" (but the whole damn album has Jon x Sansa written all over it)
> 
> This is also my first trip into writing GOT fanfiction so go easy on critiques, please! I did my very best!

She’s just the girl he remembered, he thinks. But then he realizes he’s wrong - there are only parts of the lovely girl in front of him he remembers. No, Sansa is not who Jon remembers her to be. Not at all, really.

She is still pure porcelain on the outside, red hair glossy against the stark white of the snow that falls upon the crown of her head. The strands kissed by fire with a glow he’s never seen before; or ever will again on anyone else. She is the image of a true-born Northern lady; now strong where she was once small and meek, still stubborn as a mule but loyal as everyone always says the Starks are. If the North chooses to forget what the Boltons have done, she never will. But Jon knows now she’ll never let anyone forget any of the harm that’s come to their family.

Sansa’s alabaster skin radiates heat through her heavy riding cloak as he holds her close, lifting her feet off the ground as he inhales the light lavender scent that her hair always manages to hold. Jon realizes it smells like home. _His_ home. She snuggles into the crook of his neck, her small hands clutching his black cloak like she’ll never let go. Jon hopes she doesn’t - it’s been too long since he’s had anyone who remotely felt like family. His brothers at the wall, Olly, once, felt like his own brothers, but now the feeling has fled and the hole is filled with Sansa’s lavender scented hair and fingers in his hair.

***

“I was awful,” she smirks, “Just admit it. Can you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“ _Forgive me_.” Sansa asserts; and there’s the version of the girl Jon knew years ago.

“Where will you go?” She asks him, face half hidden by her cup of ale.

“Where will _we_ go?”

***

Jon knows there’s no choice other than to take back Winterfell. If he’s being honest, he’d rather take Sansa away and live somewhere where no one could find them. He’d spent his entire life acting for others and after everything that’d happened Jon wants just one second for himself. But now he knows he’d walk through seven hells if only to make Sansa smile.

It’s late one night, when everyone else is asleep at Castle Black, save for Lady Brienne, who stands guard outside Jon’s quarters. Sansa sits on the very edge of his bed, Ghost at her feet. “You know we have to take back our home.”

Jon pinches his nose between his fingers, dreading the conversation about to take place. “Ladies aren’t supposed to talk about those things Ramsay did to me.”

“Sansa, you needn’t…”

“No, Jon. Listen to me. I can still feel it. I don’t mean in my tender heart it still pains me so. I can still feel what he did in my body standing here right now.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. What is there to say? What could have been done differently? If Robb had lived? If he himself had known? Could he have saved his sweet sister from the Boltons? Could he have rescued her from the South after Ned’s death? Jon instead rushes forward, cradling Sansa’s face in his hands in an uncharacteristically tender display of affection.

“We will take back Winterfell. For our brother; for you.”

“And you,” Sansa replies, “It is your home too.”

***

Gathering support from the smaller Northern houses is harder than Jon anticipates. He expected the North to remember; like everyone always said they did, but it wasn’t going like he needed. Like _they_ needed. Sansa needed the support just as much as he did, if not more. 

“62 men,” Jon muses in his tent after a long day of traveling. Sansa lays sprawled across his small cot. “Is this what we’ve come to?”

“It is 62 men we did not have before.”

“Granted from a ten year old.”

“She has more will than both of us combined, I believe,” Sansa giggles, “I do think she might take on House Bolton herself.”

Jon shakes his head, shaking off a smile.

Sansa sits up, grabbing his forearm. “It is alright to smile now and again, Jon. We will be safe. We _will_ win.”

She says it with such conviction Jon believes her. Maybe it’s because there is no other option, or because he loves her strength so dearly. Perhaps it’s a bit of both. Jon finds himself further inclined toward the latter option. He places a delicate kiss on the back of her hand, smiling that half-up, half-down smirk that could stop Sansa’s heart right in her chest.

“I think you’d move mountains to be the one to tear down Ramsay in his tracks.”

“And you? What would you do?”

Jon can’t answer her question. His answer would tear the world apart and scare even his own ears. “Let us hope you never find out.”

“And let’s hope we do.” Sansa takes the moment of silence to kiss Jon’s palm before exiting the tent and heading toward hers, leaving Jon alone with feelings a brother should never quite feel for his sister.

***

He's grown used to walking into Sansa's tent unannounced, and tonight is no different. Except instead of quietly knitting, Sansa wraps a small letter around a raven's foot. "Who are you writing to? Lady Brienne? Has she reached the Riverlands yet?"

 "It's not for her," she answers quietly, tying a delicate bow before she lets the Raven loose into the night.

Jon cocks an eyebrow, waiting for her speak once more. "It's to Lord Baelish and Lord of the Vale, Robin Arryn."

"Sansa..."

"It is our only option, Jon. You know this. He is my uncle by marriage-"

"And he betrayed you time and time again."

"And yet you have no one else to recommend. A band of 2,000 mismatched troops to Ramsay's army of 5,000 won't get us back our home."

"So you keep reminding me," Jon snips, curling his fingers into his palms. "And we're to trust Baelish? The same man who turned you over Bolton? The one who you said yourself pushed your aunt to her death?"

"And I lied for him. He will not betray us this time."

Jon stands now, coming just in front of Sansa. She's almost his height and he can hardly stand it. He's fuming, though not at her, but at himself. Had he been a Stark, could all of this been avoided? Would they have been able to ask someone other than Baelish? He opens his mouth to speak but Sansa silences him.

"You have to trust me, Jon. You know I'm right. I'm not the small girl who never said goodbye to you before you left for the wall. I've lived. I've learned. Ser Davos will only get you so far. You're going to have to trust me."

Jon sighs in frustration. "You mustn't be angry with me, Jon. Please. We may be the last two Starks. You are all I have."

He takes hold of her hands, looking at her carefully. Here in front of him is the girl she hides, locked behind a wall of iron and strength. Jon realizes how vulnerable they both truly are and pulls her to his chest. She holds him just as tight as the day of their reunion, face pressed into his neck and fingers loosening his hair from the small bun it's tied into. "Will you stay?" Sansa whispers, her breath sending goosebumps across the whole of his body.

And Jon will never deny her anything again.

***

She asks him to unlace her heavy Winter gown, unashamed when it drops to her ankles and Sansa's left only in a shift and her small clothes. "Lie with me," she commands, crawling into the left side of the small bed they have set up for her.

 Jon clears his throat awkwardly, loosening the furs from around his neck and toeing off his boots. He sits as far from her as the bed will allow, but Sansa takes his arm and pulls him to lay down. "Don't be such a goose, Jon. It's cold, get under the blanket." He barely moves as she covers him with the furs, lying her head on his chest when she's finished.

Sansa plays with the linen of his shirt before she feels his hands in her hair, carding through the strands and splaying it across his arm and pillows. "Do you think we'll die?" She asks, turning so that her chin rests on his sternum.

"No," he lies, pushing stray strands of hair out of her face.

"You're a terrible liar, Jon Snow."

Before he can object, Sansa's lips are on his, molding gently against his mouth. Jon's first instinct is to pull away but then he feels her chest on his and he's locked in a curtain of red. Her lips are unimaginably soft, unchapped and untouched for how cold it is. She pulls back only to breathe and Jon gasps against her skin. "You are my sister," he manages, one hand pushing her hair out of her face and the other tracing down her back.

"Half," she replies, kissing him once more.

***

He leaves her tent before she wakes, before the sun rises. Jon's lips are slightly purple and swollen from Sansa's kisses and he can feel the ache of leftover teeth marks on his chest. His stomach feels half tied with regret and the other half burns with exhilaration. Davos calls Jon's name at least three times before he answers, blaming his lack of concentration on a lack of sleep. It's not necessarily a lie. After hours of battle plans, Davos clears his throat.

"And a raven arrived for you this morning. It's marked with the sigil of House Bolton."

Jon takes it with heavy hands and swiftly leaves to find his sister. She sits with Lady Mormont, attempting to teach her how to sew.  "Lady Lyanna," Jon bows, "If I might have a moment with my sister alone?"

The small, but fierce girl nods and leaves the room. "She reminds me of Arya," Sansa muses, wrapping up her needling before looking up at Jon's worried face. "Well, what is it?" 

"Sansa, we received a raven this morning."

"Baelish?"

"Bolton."

Sansa collapses as she reads the letter, falling to her knees in a heap of wet and fresh tears. “Jon, Jon, Jon,” she chants, “He was so young, so young. We left him alone and now he’s gone. Died an awful death at our hands.”

Jon bites back his own tears, throwing the letter across the room and sinking behind Sansa to gather her up in his arms. “We killed Rickon, Jon. I did.”

“No,” Jon responds forcefully, “Ramsay did. There was nothing we could have done to prevent it.”

“I could have gone back when he sent the first raven and this would have all been over.” Sansa sobs into Jon’s neck, clutching at him with harsh hands and crying until she can’t breathe, see, or speak. “What have I done?”

 Jon rocks her softly, cradling her head against his chest and kissing the top of her head. “No, the question is ‘what will we do?’ The battle will take place four days from now – and I will make sure every last Bolton is cut down where he stands. We will make him pay. I will make you safe.” He holds her until it is dark, until she stops sobbing. He even lets her wipe her nose across the sleeve of his tunic.

***

Jon helps her out of her dress, carefully placing it over the chair in the corner. He doesn’t bother unbraiding her hair; just tucks her into bed as if she was a child, but she doesn’t let him leave. Sansa catches his wrist as he turns away, “You’re mad if you think you’re leaving my sight.”

And so just like the night before, he climbs into her bed, cradling her into the safe cage of his arms. She kisses him first, cheeks still salty with dried tears and lips now chapped from her crying. Jon pushes her away, gently, leaving just enough room for him to speak.

“Sansa, we can’t.”

“Why not? Because our brother has died? Because you are my half-brother? Shall I make you a list of all the reasons why we can’t? Because I can think of plenty, and yet I don’t care.”

Jon makes a small sound in the back of his throat, torn between kissing Sansa’s attitude away or rolling out from underneath her.

“I haven’t had my way in years, Jon. Are you going the one thing I ask for away?”

“I am never surprised at what a brat you always were,” Jon manages to smile before he kisses her hard. His hands untangle her braid in seconds, letting the red waves fall around their faces. “Still are to this day.”

***

Sansa gasps as he pushes her shift up over her hips, his lips leaving a trail of wet kisses along the smooth valley of her stomach. “Jon,” she huffs, “What are you doing?”

“I promise I’ll stop if you don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what?”

He moves his body back up hers, pressing his lips against hers to quiet her, “It’s better if I show you.”

She nods quickly, watching with careful eyes as Jon kisses a soft spot behind her ear, down her neck and back down to her hips. He spreads her legs carefully, looking over her center. He’s touched her, felt her, made her quake with his fingers but always in the dark – never bared before him. Sansa’s thighs quake with unknowing anticipation as Jon moves slowly, kissing the crease where her leg meets her hip, her hipbones, the soft skin of her stomach just above where she’s practically dripping for him. He parts her with his fingers, glancing up to her eyes before he takes a long lick up her center.

She tastes heavenly; unlike anything that’s ever been on his taste buds before. Jon could taste her all day and never grow tired, he thinks. An involuntary moan slips past his lips as he shoulders her thighs further apart, his hands wrapping around her hips to pull her closer to his mouth. Sansa’s never felt anything remotely as good as this – she had heard Shae whisper about it, listened quietly when she overheard Theon boasting to Robb all those years ago, but had always balked at the idea of a man’s mouth licking at her most private space. She’ll admit it’s a strange feeling, a bit awkward at first, but when she lets herself go, it’s like she can’t think of anything else. Jon’s movements makes her bold; the way he fucks her tongue inside her, the way he presses the rough surface of it against a spot she never knew existed. She grinds against him like a paid whore instead of a lord’s daughter once engaged to a king.

 Sansa twists her hips to the side, locking her thighs around Jon’s head and threading her hands through his hair. “Seven hells, how many times have you done this?”

“Does it matter?” He asks against her cunt, the very tip of his tongue darting around her clit in short, fast strokes.

“Guess not,” she replies, thrusting her hips down against Jon’s mouth, riding his tongue like there’s nothing else in the world. She’d gladly die like this – with his tongue making her see stars and leaving her shaking before she even peaks.

“Jon – sto- I think…”

“What’s wrong?” Jon stops immediately, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, it felt good, but…I don't know. Is it supposed to feel like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm going to explode?"

“Wait, Sansa, have you never peaked before?”

“Peaked?”

“Have you never come?”

“Excuse me?”

Jon chuckles, shaking his head as he rubs his chin across Sansa’s thigh – “Can I show you? Can I make you peak?”

Sansa thinks on it for a second, nodding before she settles back against the pillows and furs. Jon’s mouth is back on her before she can say anything else; his tongue tracing that pattern around her sensitive nub and it’s not long before she’s grinding down on his tongue just as she had minutes before. She’s right – it’s nothing she had never felt before. The pleasure is unimaginable; like a string stretched too tight before it bursts into the greatest feeling she’s ever known. Not even in her wildest dreams did she imagine it could be like this – that someone could make her feel this good with their _mouth_ of all things. When she comes down and catches her breath, she looks at Jon still positioned between her thighs, lips bright pink and gleaming with her wetness. “Again,” Sansa commands, “Do it again.”

***

“Are you sure?” Jon asks, “If we do this, there’s no going back.”

If anyone had asked her weeks ago, she would have sobbed and shook at the very idea of ever being intimate with anyone ever again – but with Jon it’s different. She aches for him – the idea of him filling her is the first and _only_ thing she wants. She shifts her hips so that his hardened cock presses down the center of her core; her wetness seeping through his smallclothes.

“I don’t want to ever come back.” Sansa slips her hands between their bodies to tug down the last barrier between them.

Jon moves slowly at first – as if he is still unsure. This isn’t a Wildling woman in some cave – this is Sansa, _his_ Sansa, the forbidden he could never quite catch. But here she is, squirming beneath him, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs, begging for more before he even begins. One of his hands twines into her hair, gripping the strands and wrapping his fingers around back of her neck while the other grips the base of his cock. He slides into her easily, _so_ easily. A high noise comes from the back of Sansa’s throat, something between a whimper and a groan and Jon wishes he could hear it over and over and over. Her cunt wraps him up like a glove; warm and slick and unlike anything he could ever imagine. He moans when she angles her hips to catch his, pushing up to meet him when he bottoms out inside of her.

Sansa bites her lip to keep quiet, her fingers destroying Jon’s curls as she tugs at them, her legs wrapping around his back. “I’ve dreamed of this day, Sansa. I’ve thought about it – how it’d feel to be buried deep inside you, what sort of noises you’d make for me.” Jon pulls almost all the way out before he thrusts back in, sending Sansa’s lithe body up the cot. “And how good you do feel, sweet girl. You’re so wet for me,” he whispers into her skin, dropping his head to the crook of her neck of her as he finds a marked rhythm with his hips.

Sansa can’t touch enough of Jon; her fingers can’t cover as much skin she wants. She needs to feel all of him, to claim him with her fingertips and mark him as her own. She’ll settle for her teeth at his shoulder, biting as he grinds his hips against hers, unable to move as much as he’d like due to how close she cages him with her legs. “Don’t ever stop,” she mumbles, licking a stripe up his neck and moaning just a little too loudly as his hipbone presses against the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes her head spin and eyes flutter close.

“I could fuck you forever,” he replies, “I’ll never stop until you ask me to.” Sansa yanks Jon’s head to hers, mashing their lips together and kissing him roughly. She matches him thrust for thrust now, arching her back off the bed. The knot she felt earlier in her stomach returns, this time more taught, easily breakable and ready to burst at any moment.

Jon reaches behind him, untangling her ankles and sitting up so that he can press Sansa’s knees to her chest, his hips slamming against her arse as he pounds into her. He can’t look away from the way her breasts bounce; can’t look away from the single beat of sweat that falls between them. “Come for me again, Sansa,” he urges, pressing his thumb against the swollen bud just above where he slides in and out of her. “You’ll come for me, won’t you?”

It’s then when Jon hits a spot inside of her that takes her breath away; a spot almost better than the one his thumb currently presses down on. “Right there,” Sansa urges, “Don’t stop.”

Jon snaps his hips rapidly, losing rhythm as he fucks her hard. She cries out far too loudly, catching her fist against her mouth to stop the sound as she peaks once more, her walls pulsing wildly around his cock.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” he croons, staring down at Sansa as she writhes from her orgasm. Only when she’s finished moving does he pull back, spilling his seed across her stomach and falling to his side as not to crush her when he collapses. Jon isn’t sure he struggles more with the fact he feels no guilt for what he’s just done, or that he’ll do it time and time again.

***

Jon spends his days planning with Ser Davos and the rest of his mismatched commanders, desperately waiting for Baelish or anyone to come to their aid. But as each day passes, he realizes this might as well be a lost cause. No matter how many times they discuss where they’ll place the vanguard or run the foot soldiers, they’re still outnumbered and hopelessly disappointed. Jon prefers his nights, his face locked between Sansa’s thighs, licking her cunt until she’s peaked once, twice, three times, before she pushes his head away and pulls him up to taste herself on his tongue. One day he’ll fuck her like the wolves they are – her knees to the mattress, hands holding her up as he takes her from behind. But for now, he prefers to watch the way her pretty face scrunches up when she comes, the tip of her tongue wetting her lips and the ghost of his name leaving her swollen mouth.

“You ride at dawn?” Sansa asks, throwing her hair over her shoulder.

“At first light, yes.”

“I shall be by your side.”

“Sansa, no. You will stay here and be safe.”

She sits up, growing annoyed. “I said I will ride with you.”

“And I said no,” he counters, his tone matching the passion in her voice tit for tat.

“You are not father; I will be commanded by no man; not even you, Jon Snow.”

Jon’s mouth goes dry at the reminder they are family. “Then promise me, if things go badly, you shall ride back to camp, grab what you can, and ride until you reach some sort of safety. Go anywhere you think you might be protected. Try and make it to Bear Island; Lady Lyanna will help you. Go anywhere but here.”

“Fine,” she answers, “But things shall not go badly.”

***

The battle is twice as hard as anyone could have imagined. The Boltons outnumber Jon's army two to one; leaving one side heaving with the over arrogance of believing they'll win while the other side wallows in the fear of defeat. Jon's lost sight of Sansa somewhere in the battle. He'd told her to stay back, but she'd never listen, of course. She has the strength and courage of any man. Jon both admires and curses her for it.

He catches a glimpse of red hair as he shoves his sword through what must be the 100th man that day. He doesn't know who it is. It could be Sansa, it could be Tormund, it could be the ghost of Ygritte for how close he feels to death. Perhaps he has died again and it is Melisandre fighting to bring him back once more. But then he feels a sharp, nagging pain on his thigh and Jon realizes that he isn't dead; not yet.

Instead he's dragged from his horse, shoulder hitting the ground too hard for his wounded body. His breath leaves his lungs in gasps and the Bolton man above him has his axe in place and Jon thinks this might be the end. He throws his sword up to block the blow, but not before he can see every moment of his life before his eyes. Flashes of where he came from, sulking in the corners of Winterfell, jealousy as Robb kisses his first girlfriend, the laughs at Bran when he missed his archery shot, the time when he gave Arya Needle, the cave with Ygritte. But it's all overshadowed by streaks of bright red hair; long beautiful, bright red hair and blue eyes.

Perhaps he should die this way, thinking of Sansa and no one else. He can still feel how soft her skin was under his fingers, the way her lips molded against his neck as he pressed into her. Her soft sounds and moans bounce around in his head. He'll never forget those sounds. Even if he did die here, in this frozen field outside Winterfell. Even if he dies and once again sees nothing, he'll hear the way Sansa mumbled his name as he tasted between her legs, her fingers raking through the hair at his scalp and pulling him closer.

Jon can feel his strength depleting, arms growing weaker by the second as the enemy's axe grows ever closer to his neck. Perhaps this is the way he was truly meant to die; not murdered by his brothers of the Nights Watch. Perhaps now he will find peace. But that is not to be, either. His enemy is suddenly replaced by a head of familiar blonde, her sword gleaming bright crimson with the blood of House Bolton. "Come on, Jon!" She yells, and he realizes it's Brienne of Tarth. "You've got to keep fighting. It's not finished yet!"

She hauls him up with one arm like he's nothing. He catches men on one side and she on the other, taking down any who come their way. Suddenly there's a still on the battlefield, a lull of extraordinary silence. Off in the distance, Jon sees another army coming in. His heart stops, lulls for a second. If they weren't damned before, they surely are now. He hadn't counted on the Boltons having so many allies - where were these? Who were these? Hadn't his father always said the Northern men were different, more loyal?

As the men get closer, he realizes they aren't Northern at all. These men are Knights of the Vale. Their cries "for Stark!" echo through the battlefield - leaving him little room for any other emotion except relief. They're here; here for Sansa, just as she'd asked. No matter the fight he'd had with her about it, no matter what they'd owe to Littlefinger in the end, Jon could feel his nerve endings renew, a fresh energy spread throughout his body. "For Stark!" He screams, as loud as he possibly can, "For the North!"

***

"Treason! Treason!" Ramsay yelps, clinging desperately to the reigns of his horse. "You are loyal to House Bolton now!"

"Not now, not ever," the Lord Umber replies, "There is only one true King in the North. And his name is Stark." He takes Ramsay down by the hair on his head, the latter too arrogant to wear a helmet into battle. A sword is pointed at Ramsay's back, not hard enough to pierce the skin, but hard enough to hurt. For good measure, Lord Umber presses his foot against Ramsay's neck - binding him to the frozen earth. "Find Jon Snow," he commands the mend around him, "Tell him it is urgent."

"You're a traitor to your core," Ramsay spits, "Loyal to the Starks and got the little one killed. Now look at you. What have you got to show for it?"

"You," Lord Umber replies, "Your life for all the Starks left."

By the time Jon rides to where the Umbers keep Ramsay, countless men have gotten to him. He's bruised and bloody almost beyond recognition, a fate too nice for him, Jon thinks. The soldiers part as Jon approaches, close to bowing to the assumed heir of Winterfell. Ramsay spits blood across Jon's boot, huffing as Jon leans down to look at his face. God, what Jon wouldn't do at this moment to kill him. He could stomp on his skull a hundred times until it was nothing but broken bone, he could behead him right here on the bright white snow, he could steal House Bolton's trademark and have him flayed.

"Ah, the famous Stark bastard. Raised from the dead and braver than I thought you were." Ramsay says.

Jon's foot is on his throat in a matter of milliseconds, a whistle through his teeth. Ghost appears from nowhere like the white wolf he is. "Take him to Sansa," he says, rubbing the direwolf behind the ears. "Don't be gentle."

Ghost growls before he bites into Ramsay's leg, not so carefully following Jon's directions. "Count your dead," Jon tells the men gathered around, climbing back onto his horse. "Report back to Ser Davos."

Sansa is expecting Jon when the door to her tent opens, not his direwolf with a body in its mouth. "Ghost?"

For a second she's terrified it's Jon's body, sprawled out across the floor, broken and bleeding. Perhaps it's her worst fear. He has died and left her alone again. Robin Arryn jumps up before she does; eager to see the body the wolf has dragged in. She still doesn’t understand why Petyr brought him. She’s barely looked over Robin’s shoulder when a different kind of terror pulses through her when Jon storms through her tent. This time it's a welcome kind of terror; the cruel kind of terror she never thought she'd be capable of. She realizes who lies at her feet and she stubs him in the rib with the toe of her shoe.

"I thought it best left up to you what happens to him now," Jon says, flicking the sweat off his forehead. 

"The Moon Door," Robin suggests, "Let's put him through the Moon Door."

Sansa closes her eyes in annoyance. "It's too far away, Robin. I fear he'll die before he makes it back to The Vale."

Robin pouts, sitting back in his chair. "Then what do you suggest, Cousin?"

"Beheading is too quick. Flaying he knows too well. His own dogs would never turn against him." Ghost growls once more, sinking his teeth further into Ramsay's leg. "We shall burn him."

Sansa makes sure Ramsay's coherent and aware, even if bound and gagged when Jon's men place him onto the St. Andrew's Cross. Sansa stands tall at the foot of it all, hair shining in tight braids and dressed in clean black gown she's dug out of her chest. Ramsay squirms against his ropes but she doesn't miss a beat. "I can't ever do what you've done to me. What you have done to Rickon, to Winterfell, to the whole of the North. I cannot turn back time, though I wish I might. We," Sansa pauses, looks around behind her, "are here to show you the North always remembers. And as much as we all hated your father, he was right. You get a reputation as a mad dog, you get put down like one.”

It is Sansa who lights the fire beneath Ramsay's feet. It is she who holds the flame to the kindling a little too long, almost singeing the edges of her sleeves. She steps back once she hears Ramsay's muffled screams and smells the awful stench of charred skin. She only looks away once, to take hold of Jon's hand and intertwine their fingers together. When it’s all said and done, the two make their way back to Sansa’s tent, Jon still bloody and exhausted from battle, Sansa clean and pristine as she always should be. Lord Baelish awaits them both.

***

“Congratulations on your victory, Lady Sansa, Lord Snow.”

“Mmm,” Sansa hums, looking at Jon. “Congratulations on keeping your word.” Baelish tilts his head as he often does.

“And tell me, what do you plan to do now? Now that the Boltons are defeated and Jon will be declared legitimate?”

“Legitimate?” Jon asks, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“Ah, I am afraid I have beat the raven from Mereen. You must wait, then. We will speak later.”

Jon’s too exhausted to even argue, collapsing in a chair before Baelish exits the tent. “What do you think he’s talking about, Jon? Legitimate?”

“I truthfully don’t know,” he sighs, “I told Stannis I wasn’t interested in taking the Stark name, but that seems like a long time ago now.”

“Stannis is dead – he couldn’t have legitimized you.”

Jon looks into her eyes and shrugs. “I’m tired, Sansa.”

“You’re hurt,” she replies, pouring water into a large pot and setting it over the fire to warm.

Sansa washes his wounds gently, with much care until the water is stained brown from the dirt and dried blood from the battle. “There was a moment I thought I had lost you today,” he mumbles, wincing as she presses the wet cloth to his bruised ribs.

“Only a few? Then you are lucky.”

Jon laughs lightly, catching Sansa’s wrists between his fingers and kissing her skin. “You’ve not lost me yet.”

They fall asleep together, too tired to attempt anything more than innocent. When they both awake the next day, it’s afternoon and the two can barely open their eyes. Sansa notices the raven in the doorway of the tent, sliding on her dressing gown and slipping the small knot from the leg of the bird. “It’s sealed with a Targaryen sigil.”

“Targaryen?” Jon replies, “What does the Dragon Queen want with us?”

“Not us; it is addressed to you.”

Jon sits up in bed, reaching for the letter as Sansa crosses the room. He reads it quickly, Sansa standing quietly, waiting for its contents.

“It says she is sailing for Westeros with Samwell Tarly and Tyrion Lannister.”

“Tyrion? And is that all?”

“’Is that all?’” Jon laughs, “The Dragon Queen is sailing to conquer Westeros with your former husband and all you have to say is ‘is that all’?”

She stares at him with a look that could kill and Jon clears his throat. “It says I am the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. It says that I am her nephew and when she lands and takes the Iron Throne, I am to be legitimized.”

Sansa loses her breath, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Jon. “And you believe her? This Dragon Queen no one has ever seen?”

“It is in Sam’s handwriting – and I trust Sam with my life.”

“And if she doesn’t take the Iron Throne?”

“Then I will be your Jon Snow forever,” he replies, tossing the letter aside and caressing Sansa’s cheek.

“And will you not be that anyway?”

Jon doesn’t reply, just runs his thumb along her bottom lip. Yes, he’ll be that for as long as forever will allow.

           

 

**Author's Note:**

> The battle is also based off the real life Battle of Bosworth Field. Jon and Sansa stand in for a modified Henry VII, Littlefinger is Thomas Stanley, and Ramsay is Richard III. Don't send me any hate about it - I dug out my college history books to get the details correct. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought! x


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